


Shine Forth Upon Our Clouded Hills

by lowflyingfruit



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alfred Pennyworth is an Englishman, Cultural Differences, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 10:03:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10384197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowflyingfruit/pseuds/lowflyingfruit
Summary: All Alfred wants to do is keep up with the cricket. His charges have other ideas.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was requested by a commenter on another of my works...and I got started on it within the hour. Title from "And did those feet in ancient time," (aka "Jerusalem"), by William Blake - which, set to music, is the anthem of England's cricket team. The match details are completely made up.

Dinner was running long, and Alfred was not pleased.

Personally, he held Master Damian responsible for this turn of events. Not that he disapproved of Master Bruce's handling of the situation - lord knew that Damian could use some additional discipline from time to time, especially when it came to such ordinary people as he interacted with in the course of his education.

Damian twitched in his seat. Master Bruce growled out, "Stay seated, Damian." Alfred longed to clear the table and retreat to the kitchen, and his radio. "Explain."

"There is nothing  _to_ explain," Damian replied.

The resulting staredown lasted a full minute. Alfred counted the seconds from his position by the door. At this rate, they would both be late out on patrol. Just as importantly, play was due to resume for the day in Adelaide very soon indeed. England were seven down for just over two hundred runs, entirely inadequate under the circumstances, but with an established batsman still at the crease and four days yet to play Alfred was not prepared to give up hope so easily.

"Tt," Master Damian said, resolve cracking under his father's stern gaze. "It was a misunderstanding. My teacher misinterpreted my remark."

Bruce looked over to Alfred. "Feel free to clear up, Alfred," he said. "I think Damian and I will be here for a little while yet."

"Certainly, Master Bruce," Alfred said, and did so as quick as was seemly.

As he left the room, he heard Master Bruce ask, "Have you discussed this with your teacher? Or mention it to the principal when asked?" Alfred smiled to himself. It was slow, but those two were starting to get the hang of communicating with each other.

His good mood lasted until he flicked on the small TV in the kitchen, long since provided with the means to receive the relevant broadcast, and turned away to start on the dishes. Instead of the pleasant buzz of a cricket ground, the scuffling of bat and boots through the pitch mikes, and the soothing rhythm of the bowler's footsteps, there was joyful shouting. The joyful shouting of  _Australians_. To a true English cricket fan, there could be no more aggravating sound.

Alfred turned back to watch the replay. Straight ball, extremely fast. Clean bowled. No shame in that dismissal. All the same. Eight down.

Blast.

 

\---

 

The English innings lasted long enough for Alfred to finish the dishes, but hardly any longer. He was just putting the finishing touches on his grocery list for the next day when the final wicket fell, part of a futile and desperate attempt to reach two hundred and fifty. All out for two hundred and forty-two.

England had made worse scores in his lifetime.

During the innings break, he took the opportunity to check on the patrol progress of Batman, Robin, and Nightwing. It might have been a sunny day in Adelaide (today, as opposed to the previous day's rain delay), but in Gotham it was a cold, miserable night. The forecast was for hail.

Then he checked in on Master Timothy.

He was still asleep, thankfully, just as he had been before dinner. On patrol the previous night, he had been hit by one of Professor Crane's concoctions. He had been given an antidote promptly, but just as promptly suffered a poor reaction to the antidote. He had been ill for a good deal of the morning. Needless to say, he was barred from patrol until he recovered fully.

Thus satisfied that the entire Wayne family were managing well without him, Alfred settled down in his preferred armchair to watch, novel in hand for the less eventful parts of the match. He passed a peaceful forty-five minutes of watching the Australians begin to amass runs at their usual alarming rate, before the intercom buzzed to life. "Alfred?" Master Timothy's groggy voice said. "I could use some help..."

"I shall be there directly," Alfred said. There was no contest in this decision (nor did it seem likely that there would be a contest in the match, but Alfred was an English cricket fan, and English cricket fans stayed with their team through every bitter defeat). Master Timothy needed assistance.

He returned upstairs only to find that Master Timothy had, quite unfortunately, thrown up. They really did have to reconsider that antidote, or at least its use on Timothy. The cure might be worse than the disease in this case.

"Sorry," Timothy mumbled. He did not appear to have the energy to do much more than that. His request for assistance was well-merited.

"It's quite all right, my boy," Alfred said. "Would you prefer to move to one of the guest rooms overnight?" Timothy's room did currently smell rather strongly of vomit.

"If it's not too much trouble..."

"It is not," Alfred said firmly. He helped Master Timothy to a clean bed, fetched him clean clothing, the laptop nearest his bed, dry crackers and ginger ale, and then set to cleaning up.

By the time he returned to his armchair, an Australian had lost his wicket to a rash pull shot, and the players had gone off for lunch. Impeccable timing.

 

\---

 

A second Australian wicket fell shortly after the lunch break, and Alfred was heartily enjoying a display of good line and length shutting down the flow of runs.  _This_ was what Test cricket was all about, and if he had a regret about spending so much of his adult life in the United States, it was the general incomprehension the locals held for this finest of sports. As if their own baseball was any less confusing.

Then Batman called. "Alfred, are you awake?"

It was an Ashes match. Of course he was awake. "Yes, Master Batman."

"We could use your assistance downstairs," Batman said.

Duty called again, then. "But of course."

He went downstairs to find a set of notifications on the screen of the main computer. It seemed that Master Jason had taken it upon himself to conduct a spot of demolitions work in town, but without anything that could be called a proper permit. He  _was_ rather fond of C4. Alfred eagerly awaited the day Master Jason started to prefer less drastic solutions than wholesale destruction of buildings.

In the meantime, it fell to him to conduct a spot of remote cleaning-up. A touch of extremely illegal impersonation of a police officer directed a squad car away from Master Jason's escape route and sniffer dogs away from one of his safehouses. He also saved some time and put through a request for more C4. If Jason did not get it from Batman, he'd get it from somewhere else.

Notifications from online informed him that no further wickets had fallen, but without commentary there was no telling the true state of the match. Something would have to give soon. Alfred hoped it would not be the English attack.

"All done, sir," Alfred reported, when the last of the immediate aftermath was called off and Master Jason was safely back in one of his apartments. Uninjured, Alfred had been assured. And that was the most important thing.

The text message from Jason on his personal cell phone reading  _Thank you Alfred_ was quite gratifying as well.

 

\---

 

Tea came and went, and soon, Alfred knew, Master Bruce, Master Damian, and perhaps even Master Richard would be returning to the cave. That was his cue to move downstairs again, ensure the cricket was on one of the lesser screens, and wait. After the loss of not one but two Australian wickets, one on either side of the tea break and one even thanks to a genuinely good delivery by a part-time medium-pacer (a pleasant surprise to say the least - if only the front-line bowlers could do their part so effectively), play had settled into a steady rhythm in which runs were scored at a steady but not outrageous pace.

Unfortunately, even that was ominous for his team's prospects. Two hundred and forty-two was not a large total to defend.

He was just getting drawn into the course of play again, and his fellow England supporters present on the scene were engaging in the rousing chant of _Barmy Army! Barmy Army!,_  when the Batmobile skidded into its place. Nightwing's motorcycle was not far behind but, as Alfred looked on with concern, it was not Nightwing driving it. Master Damian was doing that.

Batman, in the meantime, was hauling Nightwing from the Batmobile.

"Oh dear," Alfred said. "What do you need me to do?"

"Blankets, fresh heat packs, and hot chocolate," Batman said. "He dived in the river."

"Had to," Master Richard said through chattering teeth.

"Another case of a tavern-goer attempting an ill-advised swim?" Alfred asked.

"What does it matter?" Master Damian said, apparently deeply irritated by the situation. Alfred had spent long enough with Master Damian to know that he was more worried than annoyed. "He'd dive in after almost anyone, no matter how foolish."

Richard smiled weakly at his brother.

So it had indeed been another case of inebriation-induced danger. And of course Nightwing, who wore no cape, had volunteered to do the aquatic work. It made sense...but Master Richard was not one to think of warming up afterwards, even on this exceedingly cold night. Alfred went to get the required items and prepare the requisite cocoa. A snatch of commentary overheard during the latter task revealed an increasingly depressing state of play - more runs, no further wickets.

No matter. Alfred was a fan. He would be sticking with the broadcast. As soon as Master Richard was warmed up, that was.

 

\---

 

At last he was able to deem Richard well enough to sleep safely, and at last return to his armchair to catch the last half hour of play. Extended, thanks to the previous day's rain delay. Yesterday's irritation was today's minor blessing.

Master Bruce stuck his head through the door. "What's the state of play?" he asked.

"Dire," Alfred reported gloomily. "Australia are only three down and shortly to overtake England's meagre total. Barring a major batting collapse, they should set a more respectable total. This is Adelaide, after all."

Master Bruce winced. He knew the rules and customs of cricket, and was familiar enough with the game to judge the state of a match. Alfred had made sure to teach him when he was very young, and he had been pleased to learn that it had been of use to the nascent Batman when he had travelled in Afghanistan as a younger man. "Any chance of rain?"

"In Adelaide, Master Bruce? I should think they got their month's worth of rain yesterday. No, we are most likely doomed to watching the Australians amass several hundred runs."

Bruce entered the room fully and sat down in the other armchair. "How much longer is there in the day?"

"Another five overs."

"You mind if I watch them with you? I don't get the chance to watch much cricket."

"Not at all," Alfred said. "Absolute cricketing despair is more palatable in company."

"It's only day two," Bruce said. "Didn't you teach me that it's traditional to pray for rain first?"

"Yes, but I rather fear those prayers were wasted on day one."

But as Bruce settled in and started watching with the same focus he gave to everything else, Alfred couldn't find it in his heart to regret the experience. Nor the interruption.

**Author's Note:**

> It is my headcanon that Alfred taught Bruce to love Test cricket (the psychological stresses! Batman would be fascinated) and you can pry this from my cold dead hands. Thanks for reading!


End file.
